


The Devil Wears Skirts

by captaincuppy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, M/M, Now Taken Off The Shelf For No Apparent Reason, Written Way Back In The Day After The Radio Drama Adaptation, i'm sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:03:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincuppy/pseuds/captaincuppy
Summary: When Aziraphale and Crowley turn themselves into Brother Francis and Miss Crowley to raise the son of Satan together, they quickly realize that the identity of said child is not the biggest challenge they have to face.





	The Devil Wears Skirts

Six years for someone who’s been around since the Beginning shouldn’t feel like an eternity.

Except if those years are spent in the company of an angel, raising the son of the Devil together.

Except if erasing the upcoming Armageddon is up to you.

Except if you have to wear skirts.

 

**I.**  
  


Yet, Crowley doesn’t moon away much. 1745 wasn’t that long ago. He’s still got it in him. It’s like riding a bicycle, he assumed.

Six minutes later Crowley curses himself for not wearing skirts more often. Why had he stopped?

“It should be ankle length.” That’s all Aziraphale says after he peeked inside the room through the half-opened door.

Crowley lets out a ladylike, roaring laugh and pulls his skirt higher on his thighs. He’s wearing lacy stockings underneath. Aziraphale’s face demonstrates that it’s possible to darken and grow pale at the same time.

“For the sake of decency-”

“It’s not its length that’s problematic, it’s your eyes.”

“Tell me you haven’t forgotten that the fate of the whole world depends on these jobs.”

Crowley points a perfectly manicured, black nail at Aziraphale.

“If you’d let me take the gardener’s position, you could be all Mary Poppins-y as much as you like. You’re just jealous that I finally have prettier nails than you.” To show him good, he flicks them like he was born to do it.

Aziraphale huffs and turns on his heels to leave the room. As he curls his fingers around the knob, he changes his mind and decides that giving up isn’t worth it. He doesn’t even try to hide the tiny smirk in the corner of his lips as he says:

“Do something with your hair as well, my dear. It looks like a bird's nest.”

Crowley sticks his tongue out and hisses at the closed door.  
  
  


So, the wig - the wig is really freaking uncomfortable. Crowley tries everything he can think of to make it less insufferable: he succeeds in turning it into something less shiny and less plastic-looking.

Every time he puts it on, he swears. Loudly. Wearily. It’s a call for help for Aziraphale, who appears in the doorway like a knight in shining armour, even though he has a tendency to drive Crowley mad with smacking his lips and muttering nags.

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Hey. Please?”

“Crowley, no.”

“Oh angel, I know you want it.”

“Do I, now?”

“I’ll make sure it feels good for you as well.”

Aziraphale stabs the next bobby pin into Crowley’s hair like it was a flaming sword of some sort. Crowley hisses, biting his lip.

“For the last time, Crowley - I’m not going to braid your hair.”  
  


**II.**  
  


They don’t speak a word to each other throughout the second year.

Aziraphale says it’s because Crowley used Warlock’s playtime in the garden to threaten all the rosebushes, sabotaging Aziraphale’s work.

Crowley says it’s because Aziraphale is a “scratchy bastard” for refusing to braid his hair. He’s not denying the accusations, but he also wants to commit the facts to writing: he did not start this.  
  


**III.**

 

Their bedrooms lay at the opposite end of the servants’ hall, meaning it’s nearly impossible to sneak into one from the other unperceived.

One of them doesn’t care at all. The other cares for both of them.  
  


Crowley usually kicks Aziraphale’s door in without knocking, finding him in various reading positions every damn time.

Being completely ignored by his one and only enemy frustrates him, so his new mannerisms consists of sitting on chairs the other way around, spreading his legs wide. He’s still wearing his skirt, of course.

“Such a lovely night,” he likes to say. And: “The weather is exceptionally warm outside.” And: “That brat threw up on my stockings again.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Look at it.” Crowley wiggles his right leg closer to Aziraphale, high heels nearly reaching his knees.

“Crowley, if you’d excuse m-” Aziraphale looks up. Their eyes meet, then Aziraphale’s glance crawls lower on his body. If the pure scorn in his eyes could kill, Crowley would be long gone, waiting in a line for his new human-shaped body down there. “What are you doing.”

“Having a pleasant chitchat.”

“With your legs.”

“It’s comfortable.”

The door opens. Maria, the maid steps inside, bringing Brother Francis his usual hot cocoa, which she theatrically spills under the dreadful weight of the scene. She tried knocking. Three times.

Aziraphale sighs with his eyes closed.

“Oh boy, here we go.”

Crowley changes his voice, waving his fingers softly at her. His leg is still sticking up to the air.

“Good evening, Maria.”

“I haven’t seen anything,” the girl hurries to say, voice faint and high. She’s still standing in the door, facing the wall next to her so she doesn’t have to look them in the eye.

“Of course you haven’t, my-”

“Nothing’s going to pop out. Or  _ up _ .”

“Crowl-  _ Miss  _ Crowley,  _ please _ .”

Aziraphale decides that it'd better for all of them if he stepped to the still petrified maid and took the mug from her. He gently places his palm on her shoulder and escorts her out of the bedroom, comforting her with simple suggestions like drinking a steaming cup of chamomile tea to forget. 

In the meantime, Crowley had kicked off his high heels and had drawn his legs up to gift Aziraphale with a brand new angle. He's grinning shamelessly.

 

**IV.**

 

Crowley takes a liking to invading Aziraphale's personal space in the early evenings, trying to get his attention with different variations of the same, simple activity: sitting in a skirt. He tells himself that these games are still in the category of revenge for the times he didn't get his hair braided by Aziraphale’s skilled fingers.

Aziraphale's anger is fading slowly, replaced by nothing, which then, just like the creation of the universe, turns into something beautiful with numbness in between.

He gets to like this game they're playing, even though he participates in it with feigned ignorance. He'd never confess how much he enjoys it.  
  


After a while, Crowley likes to flirt with his feminine side more when he's alone with Aziraphale. He replies to the most sinister “Crowley, we need to talk” with fluttering eyelashes and a ridiculous pout. He also got used to wiggling his hips while doing ordinary, everyday tasks like walking or leaning onto things. He does the best catwalk of his entire life in front of a troubled Aziraphale and smoothes his (still unbraided, might add) hair behind his ear.

Aziraphale doesn't notice.

Crowley starts wearing a nightgown.  
  
  


**V.**

 

Maria shares everything she sees and hears (which is a lot, and indeed scandalous) with Barney, the butler. Barney tells the new information to Joe, the head cook. Joe likes to drink a glass of wine every second night with Mr. Dowling's personal assistant, who’s an old classmate of his.

The newest gossip is always best served hot, even though they don't really believe any of them.

Brother Francis is a man of faith. Or gay. There’s money on both horses.

  
  


“Do you fancy Brother Francis?” Warlock asks one lazy afternoon, riding his tricycle next to Crowley.

Crowley nearly chokes on air.

“What? Me? Him? What?”

“Do you?”

“No. No, no? No. What makes you think that?”

“Everyone says so.”

Crowley snorts. Womanly.

“We don't believe everything we hear, remember?” He scolds him in his nanny voice, waggling his finger. “Everybody lies and is rotten inside. We don't trust anyone, or we'll be destroyed.”

Warlock thinks about it for a moment, gazing at the sky. He nods to himself then, staring back at Crowley with the cold, empty eyes of a normal child.

“I don't trust you saying ‘no’ then.”

And then he pedals forth, leaving an awfully disturbed Crowley behind.  
  


**VI.**

 

On their last night together at the mansion, they get drunk fast and carelessly on the bottles of wine Crowley borrowed from the kitchen with no intentions of bringing them back.

Aziraphale puts on Crowley’s favorite pencil skirt and braids his hair as they sit on the edge of the bed.

Crowley enjoys the time they spend together until he sobers up a little and notices that his skirt looks way better on Aziraphale. He stares at his legs, pale and soft, and his thighs that the skirt tightens on in an unholy way.

He drinks some more, swigging straight from the bottle. They’ve long forgotten the glasses. He dries his mouth with the back of his hand and hands Aziraphale the bottle. He grunts at him, meaning “would you, by any chance, like some more wine?”. He notices Aziraphale rubbing the mouth of the bottle with his shirt before sipping, and Crowley's throat burns again.

He leans back on the bed, one leg hanging over the edge.

“This is not fair,” he grumbles, wishing Aziraphale didn't hear him.

He did, and he tilts his head to peek at Crowley with a questioning look.

“That... I… became the mommy.”

Aziraphale joins him, sprawling down and out. They’re laying so close, Crowley can feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin through his clothes, his scent melling with the sour smell of the wine.

“Pardon me?"

“We're practically parents, you know,” Crowley slurs quickly. “We raised this… thing. No one else cared enough. Just you and me.

“Oh. Oh.” Aziraphale stares at the ceiling, so Crowley steals a glance. Aziraphale's cheeks are slightly tinted from the wine. “Parents. I'd be damned.”

He starts laughing. He sounds different than usual.  
  
  


 

Six years for someone who’s been around since the Beginning feels like a blink of an eye.

Especially if those years are spent in the company of an angel who you slowly but surely have been falling for since said beginning

Especially if he makes you forget everything you've ever known to be true and wrong.

You've been raising the son of the Devil, after all. Together.

And it all happened so fast.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know either.
> 
> // find me on tumblr as [[nikiforovisgay]](http://nikiforovisgay.tumblr.com/)  
> // forever thankful for my lovely beta [[esoterrible]](http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
